


Blue and Gold

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Arkham, But it's fixed in the same chapter don't worry, Gen, M/M, Mental Illness, Nygmobblepot, There's an offscreen character death in chapter one, for some reason Oswald's mother's tag isn't working, in a weird way it's a fix it fic, loosely a Zatanna influenced AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-07 12:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14080785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Oswald, who's endured heartbreak after heartbreak until all he has left is his throne, finds himself in another space and time with a second chance.





	1. Chapter 1

As the fleet of vehicles approaches the Gotham Cemetery Oswald spares one last glance to the city proper at his back. His city, by name and by fame, and he laments just how strongly he fought for something so cold and callous and unloving. Even the steady trickle of lights flickering on as the sun truly sets offers no warmth or comfort.

Even now he catches himself glancing to his right or left, waiting for a steady whisper of words in his ear to help maintain his upper hand, or in this case, a carefully chosen string of not exactly comfort words to help him maintain composure as his vehicles all stop in a row near his mother’s grave.

But if Gotham is a war then Ed is its greatest casualty. His fractured mind switches between disgust, distrust, and disinterest depending on the day, and that’s only if he recognizes Oswald in the first place. Oswald would fund a transfer to just about anywhere else if he had any shredded bits of hope left in him.

He stops only briefly at his mother’s grave, laying one stark white lily at the base of her headstone before continuing on. He’s long since lost the right to lament his woes to a woman that barely knew what he was capable of, let alone what he’s willingly thrown under the bus on his way to the top of Gotham’s underground.

There’s a numb spot in his chest whenever he stands before Martin’s simple headstone. Distantly he remembers the rage, the grief, but not what caused it to slip away and leave him feeling empty in its wake. Time, maybe, although he can’t imagine a year being so powerful when it feels far too short.

He fumbles with his pockets until he finds a matchbook. Oswald tears off a single, slightly bent match and strikes it against the phillumeny, watching as the flame dances for a moment before setting it atop the gray marble. He remains there until the flame burns down the entire end, watching as it steadily scorches the top. The rain will wash part of the mark away, but some of it always remains. He likes to think that Martin would take solace in the gesture, or at least find it amusing for the too brief time it burns.

Oswald nods once, and the armed guards around various points of the cemetery move in to surround him in a triangle formation. As he returns to his car he touches the tops of the Falcone graves, tapping each one lightly as he passes. Be it a prayer or a greeting he feels it’s proper to remember their sacrifices that helped secure his place here in Gotham.

“Take me to the penthouse,” he tells the driver, voice scratching his throat on the way out but steady in cadence. He’s cried enough for several lifetimes; he can’t imagine still being able to now.

His penthouse overlooks the center of Gotham, the rotten core of the dark city he rules over. Safety is relative, but the various guards stationed among the lower floors and the rotating roof patrol provides enough cover for him to have a brief respite.

There's always something brewing somewhere in Gotham. He's beyond genuine shock at this point, but the brilliant blue flashes he sees through the window aren't from a police cruiser, and while Gotham never seems to have a clear night sky the few wispy clouds aren't bringing any thunder or, more importantly, lightning.

He presses a hand to the floor to ceiling windows and watches the lightshow unfold, following the flashes as they zip through the city.

Little flash bangs of bright gold run parallel with some of the blue, and the longer Oswald watches the more transfixed he gets.

A giant flash lights up the sky, blue and gold intertwined in a magnificent display, and it's only too late when Oswald notices a tail streaking for his window.

He steps back, stumbling on his bad leg. His vision is engulfed with blinding light, growing larger and larger.

And then.

Nothing.

-

He is warm.

It's the first genuinely coherent thought he manages past a string of garbled half thoughts about wanting more sleep and needing some aspirin for his aching head. Second, he realizes he desperately wants to soak away some of his more constant pains. His leg’s needs trumps all. But his bed truly is comfortable, and he has a brief but legitimate worry that he won't be able to get it to bend today based on the persistent cramp in his calf, so he stays put.

“Shh,” he hears from somewhere above him. Oswald groans in response, because really, why would the help shush each other when he hasn't _heard_ them until the shushing? Thoughtless.

“Let him sleep,” another whisper from the same voice, male, preventing him from _doing that._ He can't place it but he _knows_ the voice, well enough that he'll be able to berate the help for disturbing his rest later. In the meantime Oswald burrows deeper underneath the comforter to block some of the sound.

There's a scritch-scratching and some distressed breathing, and then a pause before that same voice says, “no, he's fine. Probably didn't sleep well. C’mon,” he hears a thump-thump as two feet thud against the hardwood, “let's go start some breakfast.”

Oswald's stomach growls painfully, cramping at the end of a lengthy peal of gurgling, and he realizes, third, that while he'd love to sleep and he'd _love_ to soak, he's going to need some food before either is truly comfortable.

He sits up slowly, groaning as the change in posture sends an angry pulse up to his temple. The light streaming in through the windows is far too bright and cheery, and without the blanket holding in his body heat the chilled air of his bedroom raises goosebumps down his arms.

When his headache calms to dull pressure he opens his eyes beyond his painful squint and about has a coronary when he sees himself staring back at him.

It's a portrait, oil or acrylic or something, and definitely not something he would have approved of for his bedroom.

Everything about the room is _wrong_ . The bed (gigantic, with an unfamiliar Fleur-de-lis covered comforter on top), the walls (a mix of old dark wood and wallpaper), the _place_ (clearly _not_ his penthouse) and he takes gulping breaths before flipping back the blankets and staring down at his right leg to see if it's become some sort of otherworldly contraption or something.

It's still his leg, still bungled up and scarred but very familiar and very comforting considering literally everything else.

Oswald tests the floor with his good leg and then his bad, wincing at the cramp that just won't release. He uses the nearby side table to push himself upright, hopping a bit on his good leg until he slowly adds pressure to his bad. It won't support much weight today, but it hasn't buckled, and a bit of stretching helps to get his lower leg functional through the pain.

He hobbles past the bench seat by the window and makes a face at it as he walks past. It's not ugly, the cushion is actually rather inviting even after so few steps, but he can't place why it's so damn familiar.

Although it's certainly the most prominent feature of the portrait Oswald isn't the only one present. It hurts anew to see Ed, _his Ed,_ standing just to his right, arm in arm-

“What?” he says, almost a plea. How can it be this cruel?

But he looks again, and while Ed's presence in the portrait feels more afterthought than deliberate the way his hand curls over Oswald's arm is impossible to ignore.

Never, in his wildest dreams, has Oswald ever dared to commission a portrait with such an obvious suggestion. And the other figure, clearly an addition based on a slight inconsistency in the background shading, has those unmistakable curls, the devious little smirk, the-

“Martin?” he whispers, nearly reaching out to touch his acrylic cheek, when there's a clatter behind him as something hits the floor. Oswald whirls around to face his intruder, and finds the very boy standing in the doorway, looking as shocked as Oswald feels. He bolts before Oswald can react, not even reaching down for his notepad before he skitters away.

He tries to call after him, but Oswald’s voice catches in his throat. He's reduced to blubbering, broken laugh-sobs he covers up with his hand so no one outside the room can hear.

He thought he'd run out of tears for Martin, but that was when the boy was dead and gone, a victim of proximity to Oswald Cobblepot. Now he fears he may never stop, not with the boy running through the halls of his home.

“It's the mansion,” he breathes. The Van Dahl mansion. The one he'd abandoned by a combination of brute force and choice, having to outrun a barrage of bullets and too many painful memories to want to reclaim it after the dust settled.

He can't even begin to fathom the logistics, the how or why or who, but Oswald knows he can't be dead, because he can't imagine a world where he's earned this kind of afterlife.

\--

 


	2. Chapter 2

Several things about the mansion are familiar yet not. The layout is untouched, but the moment Oswald steps into the attached master bathroom he bristles at the audacity someone had to replace the old clawfoot tub with a larger, and admittedly, nicer tub with a lower side.

Partway into filling the tub with steaming water he comes to the reluctant conclusion that  _ he  _ must have made the change, but not himself exactly, because Oswald doesn't remember this world and yet it managed to turn without him here.

He's not doing his headache any favors dwelling on whatever version of himself developed enough narcissistic tendencies to commission a portrait of himself (with Ed and Martin but he's  _ sure  _ they were later additions) for his bedroom and changed the historic tub. Although it's clear he did something right with Ed and Martin here, alive, and apparently safer than Oswald ever managed.

As much as Oswald would love to spend the next several hours in the tub there are too many unknowns flying around to leave himself vulnerable for long. Wouldn’t that be a riot? Spending half the morning in the tub and the original Oswald to pop in and bludgeon him with the nearest blunt object. He’d have to cover it up, of course. Lucky him there’s several electric items lining the counter of the his and her sinks that he could use to stage an accident.

It’s just a touch too hot, but even as he hisses with discomfort he can feel some of the extra tension in his leg start to ease once he’s fully seated. Oswald alternates between digging his thumbs into the tendons just below his knee and resting his head against the rim of the tub when his headache flares.

“What is this?” he whispers. He rubs his hands over his face and groans. Whatever this  _ is _ , it has a disturbing number of overlaps with a long night drinking and the resulting hangover. The only solace is the pain is pretty sound evidence that he isn’t having some sort of medical crisis in a ditch somewhere.

He turns towards the gilded mirror above the sink and drops his hands from his face, flinching when it causes the water to splash up at him. He doesn’t  _ look  _ out of place in his reflection. His eyes are a bit puffy and red. If this Ed is considerate enough to let him sleep he’ll probably make a fuss about Oswald crying.

There’s a lot he’s going to have to suss out about this Ed and Martin without them asking too many questions in return. While telling the truth really is the ideal it’s unlike that the result would be anything other than a one-way ticket to Arkham. Best to just lie low for now and try to fill the original Oswald’s shoes until he can figure a few things out.

Oswald exits the tub carefully and wraps a thick, warm towel around himself and exits the bathroom without bothering to pick up after himself. There’s no way any Oswald in  _ any  _ universe lives in this home without having some hired help, so he leaves his clothes and the tub for Olga (or whoever it is) to clean up.

He opens the bureau to the immediate right of the bathroom door and finds another universal Oswald constant inside. Oswald runs his hands over each well tailored suit, touching the lapels and admiring the stitching on the somewhat unfamiliar but aesthetically pleasing clothing. At least he won’t have to parade around in jeans and pretend he’s anything but completely uncomfortable and, if he’s honest, mildly disgusted.

Oswald selects a suit that reminds him of his old Mayoral days, something lightweight but well cut and very flattering given his less than ideal body type. After a quick silent prayer that this Oswald hasn’t magically grown an extra few inches he starts to dress, finding each curve and stitch to be more or less where he wants them.

He finds a cane holder near the bedroom door. There are several, all with a different handle in various shapes and styles. He selects one with a dark wood lacquer finish and a simple silver handle in the shape of a diving hawk.

Martin’s notepad is still on the floor where he dropped it. Oswald shifts all his weight to his left leg and bends over at the waist, bad leg kicked out behind him for balance as he reaches down to pick it up.

It’s the same style his Martin used, but the edges are more worn and roughed up than he remembers. There’s the start of a question,  _ Are you s-  _ and then a deep line across the rest of the page. He’s such a thoughtful boy.

Oswald studies the rooms between the bedroom and dining room, noting each changed painting and photo. He runs his fingers over a large framed photo of his father, and pauses when he finds a smaller, slightly damaged photo of his mother hung to its left.

“I’ll do better,” he tells her. He taps her cheek with one finger and nods to reaffirm his promise. “I will.”

The telltale sounds of fork scraping and glasses clinking lead him to the dining room. Ed glances up once and double takes, and his surprise makes Martin turn around to watch Oswald approach the head of the table and sit in what he assumes is his usual seat.

“Morning,” he says brightly. He examines the three serving platters (some sort of quiche, bacon and sausage, and a variety of cut fruit) and his stomach reminds him of his earlier hunger with a loud gurgle. “Quiche?”

“Y-” Ed clears his throat. “Yes. I’m sorry, did we wake you?”

Oswald waves him off with a little laugh. “Goodness no. You think I want to just sleep the day away?” Martin keeps his head down and plays with his helping of quiche without taking a bite. “I mean it, I was already awake.” He offers Martin his notepad and the boy glances between it and Oswald with trepidation before shyly reaching out and clutching it to his chest.

“Are you alright?” Ed asks softly.

No, no he’s not, because all it took to blow his cover was a measly half a minute. Is the original Oswald more affectionate? Does he kiss Ed’s cheek before sitting? Would it be better or worse to do so now? How bad would it look if he just left the room without saying anything instead of dealing with his problems?

“You just,” Ed pauses, watching Oswald for some sort of sign before he seems to see it and continues, “you went to bed early,” he explains. “And you slept late. If you’re feeling sick-”

“Oh!” Oswald sighs with relief, “no, I’m fine,” he tells them both. “It’s just,” he shrugs, “the weather.”

Ed stares at him for a few seconds, and then turns his gaze to the window. Oswald turns around in his chair and mentally curses the sun and its inability to hide behind a cloud when Oswald is making excuses. “Looks can be deceiving,” he adds, and Ed drops the matter.

His housemates return to eating and Oswald serves himself a slice of the quiche and a handful of bacon strips. The extremeness of his hunger helps him ignore the uncomfortable silence and any implications that it means he’s doing a piss poor job of being  _ himself _ . Ed seems mollified, at least, but Martin can’t keep his attention on his plate.

“Are  _ you _ feeling sick?” Oswald asks him.

Martin’s reaction to a very reasonable, understandable inquiry is to shove an entire strip of bacon into his mouth. He stares at his plate as he chews. He’s not really sure how to interpret that.

“Oswald,” Ed says, “um, since you  _ are  _ feeling fine,” he pauses to let Oswald change his mind, which he does not, so Ed continues, “will you be going into the office this morning?”

Oswald can think of three, no four, different offices he’s occupied in his own timeline. Any or all of them could be right, or maybe he and the other Oswald’s paths diverged much earlier and  _ none  _ of them are right. He does hope all the internal screaming he’s doing isn’t translating into his expression, or that the silence hasn’t  _ actually  _ been several lifetimes, or- “yes.”

It’s about 60% panic and 30% gut instinct, with at least 10% of him still stuck on screaming.

“I’ll tell your driver,” Ed says. He sets his napkin aside and stands.

“Sit,” Oswald finds himself saying. Ed pauses mid-step and looks back at him. “It’s nothing that can’t wait. I haven’t even put on my face yet,” he jokes. “Finish eating.”

Ed pivots and returns to the table, but he stays standing with his hands braced on the back of his chair. He’s  _ definitely  _ scrutinizing Oswald’s reaction. There’s something accusatory-adjacent in his expression, but eventually he does sit back down.

Oswald pretends to not notice the look Ed and Martin exchange, or the way this interaction adds to the tense set to Ed’s shoulders. He makes a pact with himself to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the meal unless he’s about to stuff it full of food.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going in super unedited. I plan to edit once I feel more awake/alive.

Oswald is very grateful he waited until after eating to do his hair and makeup, because the extra hour it afforded his mind to fully wake up is the reason he caught that he was about to smear a giant glob of toothpaste into his hair instead of his usual gel. He grumbles to himself as he washes his hands, and it becomes near snarling when he angrily opens several drawers on the right side of the counter and finds  _ Ed’s _ things there instead. It seems this Oswald’s deviations are so severe that he doesn’t even use the same  _ sink _ .

On the  _ left  _ side he finds, well, almost nothing of use. The tiny makeup bag he finds in the back of the topmost left drawer contains one very damaged compact foundation, one torn and dirty sponge, and a single thickness of liquid eyeliner, which is dried to the point of being unusable. It seems he’s going to be fresh faced for the first time in years, and it’s not a prospect he finds the most comfortable.

The only item still in obvious use is a half empty can of aerosol hairspray, but after one whiff of the nozzle Oswald sets it back in the faint rust ring on the counter and moves back to Ed’s drawers to raid his stash of pomade. If he’s questioned he’ll say something about tiring of the smell, which is abhorrent, so unless his counterpart is a complete idiot it should be believed. Ed’s pomade doesn’t boast of any additional artificial smells, but the faint muskiness is certainly more pleasant than surrounding his head with a cloud of fumes.

On his way out he sees Ed and Martin at the dining table and a series of paper backed books and school supplies spread out over half the table. He stands outside the room looking in; despite the fact that only a handful of steps separate Oswald from them they’ve never felt farther. An old, familiar ache starts burning at his sternum and no amount of rubbing ever makes it go away.

He can’t come up with a plausible justification for a teary goodbye, so he leaves without trying to come closer. There’s a sleek black limousine waiting in the drive, and the moment Oswald’s foot hits the cobblestone drive the driver pops out and holds the door open for him. Just as he's sliding into the back of the limo the other door opens, and he watches curiously as Ed slips inside beside him with a briefcase in hand. It seems he’s coming along to “the office”. His suit and tie suggest it’s a regular occurence.

“Sorry for the delay,” Ed says. “Martin’s tutor had a few questions for an assignment.”

“Oh?” Oswald asks, “what kind of questions?”

It’s innocent enough, and really he’s only partially invested in even getting an answer, but Ed’s reaction lands somewhere dangerously high on the panic scale, and his backpedaling doesn’t lend any confidence. “Nothing prying. She’s just, she’s invested- not! Not too much, of course. Just the right amount. And Martin, he likes her. She’s patient when he doesn’t understand.”

Oswald purses his lips. “What?”

“You don’t need to be suspicious of her motivations.”

Alarm bells start going off in his head, but he quashes them. For all he knows literally every instinct he has is faulty. “You aren’t suspicious?” he checks, and Ed shakes his head. Oswald’s going to need to invest in a bottle of antacids, but he acquiesces. “Okay.”

Oswald laments the tense silence that develops between them, but it can’t be helped. Ed’s sidelong glances are a mosaic of tense weariness, a longing so blatant it’s a slap to the face, and something dull and listless, maybe disappointed. And he wants  _ something  _ from Oswald.

_ Something _ .

He can’t begin to understand what his counterpart must be like. Is he some kind of sexual dynamo? Do they have a habit of snogging in the back of the limo? He isn't opposed exactly, or wasn't. A lifetime ago he would, and did, kill for the chance to share that with his Ed, but  _ this _ Ed is basically a stranger.

But he can't raise suspicion more than he already has. He’ll turn up the charm, see if even a bit of platonic-driven affection doesn’t stave off some of these  _ looks  _ from Ed until he can gain some more insight on their relationship.

Possibilities narrow considerably as the limo parks in a spot labelled “O. Cobblepot, Mayor”. This time it's Ed that gets his door for him, and he tries to step in line just behind Oswald, who does not trust this sunny, nice timeline Oswald to not have moved the mayor's office to some sort of rooftop solarium. He stops dead in his tracks, feigning a bit of leg pain when Ed turns to wait for him.

“Just the old leg again,” he says lightly. “Go on,” he waves Ed off, “I’ll get there when I get there.”

Ed is predictably reluctant to allow space to develop between them and walks Oswald to the mayor’s office, which is thankfully not on the roof, but there is a second portrait of Oswald hovering menacingly above the desk. Whatever his counterpart is, he is certainly not subtle.

Oswald plays up his leg pain until the second he sits down, and Ed remains dutifully by his side without overstepping. “Do you need anything?”

“How about some legislation that allows me to run the city from my bathtub.” The too-brief smile warms up the edges of Oswald’s gaping hole of a chest. He can work with an Ed that appreciates a bit of humor. “I’ll manage, although I would not refuse a cup of tea.”

“I’ll send up your assistant. In the meantime,” he says as he opens up his briefcase and produces thin packets of paper from inside and hands them over. “Your improved itineraries for Gotham city and the underworld, per your request. No photo ops, weekly addresses, or outings,” Ed says.

“I really  _ could  _ run Gotham from a bathtub,” he marvels. Convenient of him to save Oswald the trouble of having to weasel this out of some nobody. The less invasive he is when collecting information the better. “I'd also like a newspaper.”

“Done,” Ed says. He pulls one from his endlessly useful briefcase and hands it over. Oswald sighs with relief when some sort of scandal of his counterpart isn't plastered over the front page. He'll set aside concerns over a beloved mayor's media silence for now and consider it a secondary gift from the universe to not have to make excuses to keep his cursed image from inciting action in the city.

Instead he turns to the itineraries, welcoming the not quite dejá vu of a younger, eager Ed handing him papers not dissimilar to the ones in his hands. But he can’t dwell on an Ed that certainly doesn’t dwell on him.

“I’ll be in my office if you need anything else,” Ed says, and he turns to leave.

Oswald pours over the itineraries, skipping over sentences to find a familiar name or project, and a particular palindrome stands out among neighboring words and phrases. “Oh, Ed,” Oswald calls to him before he can open the door, “why don’t you send Victor Zsasz my way.”

“I think he’s currently in a security meeting with your lieutenants,” Ed says warily. “If it’s vital I can interrupt-”

“No, no,” Oswald waves off any concerns. “I just have something I’d like to chat with him about. Today. Nothing to worry about, just a ah, personal project I have that I think he’ll be interested in completing.”

“Oh?” Ed emotes with a hint of mischief. “No hints?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough. Some things are hard to miss.”

Ed’s tenacity to solve every riddle has hopefully met its match. Oswald can’t have given him enough evidence to scratch the surface of the real truth, not that he can fault Ed for trying. But his curiosity morphs into a grim acceptance as he, presumably, comes to a rather negative conclusion.

“Oh,” he deadpans, “I see. I uh,” he regards Oswald with disappointment, hurt, but he doesn’t share his theory. “I should get to work.”

-

Back in his original Gotham Zsasz had an uncanny ability to pop into a space right when Oswald is looking his least dignified.

He’s not exactly thankful it’s the same here, but the fact that he’s caught Oswald an hour into emptying every desk drawer onto the desk surface is comforting in its familiarity but also incredibly irritating. Oswald pushes a stack of office supplies to the side so he can rest his hands on the desk.

“Spring cleaning,” he says.

“Not really spring,” Zsasz says back. “But uh, guess you’re in a mood, since you brought back that whippy-dip thing.”

“The what now?”

He gestures with a finger, “The hair? You know, like the top of soft serve?”

“I was feeling a bit nostalgic,” Oswald says.

“Whatever,” Zsasz shrugs. “Your man said you had a job for me. Is this supposed to be one of those, no one really knows kind of deals or are we making a statement?”

Oswald slowly rests his chin in his hands, muttering to himself, “You know, I can’t imagine what sort of force in the universe could manage to deviate you from,” he moves one hand long enough to gesture to Zsasz’s person with a gentle flick of his wrist, “this.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Why do you think this is a hit exactly?”

“Uh,” Zsasz looks left and right, “you called for me?”

“Fair enough,” Oswald sighs, “but incorrect.” A precarious stack of old newspaper from the bottom drawer topples and flutters across the floor. Oswald ignores Zsasz’s little sputter of suppressed laughter and moves on. “It’s not murder for now, but I’ve had a bout of inspiration this morning. I want you, or your men, to get what I’d like to call a status update.”

“A status update?” Zsasz wrinkles his nose with mild disgust.

“I want something on every person or family that has ever gone head to head with my empire. Every, every Falcone, Maroni-”

Zsasz smirks. “Lot of old news you're interested in, boss."  


“-yes I know they’re old news but you would not  _ believe  _ the blind loyalty some people will cling to, so I want you or your men to flush out any stray followers. I want the whereabouts of every past, present, and hell, let’s add future members in there. It can’t hurt to nip any potential problems before they gain momentum.”

“You know my guys usually do the whole, bang bang shot ‘em thing, right?” Zsasz says. “Why not have Ed do all this crap?”

“Between you and me,” Oswald says as he leans in and beckons Zsasz closer with one curled finger, “I think you’ll be a bit more successful getting some of the more stubborn folks to talk. Don’t be afraid to have a little fun with this. I wouldn’t be offended if in the end every status just read deceased.”

“Oh, yeah okay,” Zsasz nods along before declaring, “but I’m not doing desk work.”

“Why don’t you focus on the street level and I’ll see if Ed can fit some research into his schedule. Can’t be that difficult to pull records from the morgue.”

“I’m into this, boss,” Zsasz doesn’t exactly specify what he’s into, but he does follow the curve of Oswald’s hair with a finger before firing off a half-assed salute. “Bout time you authorized a show of force.”


	4. Chapter 4

In the limo on the way back from city hall he and Ed fall into what he fears may be becoming a regular uncomfortable silence.

“Ed I-” “Oswald-”

Oswald huffs, “go on.”

Ed nods. “I’d appreciate it if you let me break the bad news to Martin.”

It's only been a day he can't have screwed up this timeline _already_. “Which bad news, exactly?”

“His tutor?” Beneath Ed's melancholy there's a glimmer of hope. “Didn't you speak with Zsasz?”

“I did, wait,” Oswald gapes. “What are you implying?”

“I um,” Ed says, “I assumed it was about him having a 'chat’,” he air quotes, “with her.”

“You think I'm having her killed.”

Ed continues as if he didn't hear Oswald obvious disbelief. “She's the first tutor he's liked in ages, and the first to last more than a month.”

Oswald reaches out and touches Ed's arm. His inner monologue switches between self-beratement about not getting all worked up when they're still separated by several layers of fabric and marveling at just how warm he feels through his suit coat. Outwardly he must look a bit queasy, but Ed doesn't try to get out of the line of fire. It's commendable, but maybe a little unnecessarily self sacrificing.

“I am _not_ having Zsasz have a chat with her,” he assures him. “I have a little side project he's going to work on, which reminds me I have something for you to do for him related to that, but never mind, that's not important right now.”

“You mean that,” Ed whispers. “No new tutor.”

“Not unless she's jumped ship while we were at the office.”

Ed cups his hand over Oswald's, skin on skin. “Thank you.”

“Oh for,” Oswald scoffs, “just come here. This is why we have tint on the windows.” He slips his arm around Ed's shoulders and drags him over, fighting the resistance caused by his seat belt. Ed holds himself stiffly, because Oswald has clearly misread their situation somehow despite the sinks and the bed and- he pulls off his glasses and slips them into his breast pocket, then he settles fully against Oswald’s shoulder and side.

Ed makes no note of the way Oswald's hand is trembling against his shoulder, and likewise Oswald doesn't bring up the way Ed keeps trying, and failing, to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes with his finger. He's thankful for the silent pact, and unwilling to sully the moment with more lies.

The last time he touched a person it was also Ed, moments before Arkham guards descended from on high to sedate their tantrum throwing inmate and tossing Oswald out on the front steps. Ed's visitation rights were never restored, and he either never got one of Oswald's letters or tore them to shreds on sight. But to this Ed their last touch was probably the day before Oswald woke up in their shared bed and pilfered their bath products.

He really is a monster. It's hardly surprising his own timeline went so wrong.

This blessed timeline just keeps on giving. Had he not found himself here in this exact moment he never would have assumed Ed, with his gangly limbs and long torso, could fit so snugly tucked underneath Oswald's arm. And yet here Ed is, getting heavier by the second as his drowse turns into a full on nap, safely tucked away under his wing.

-

The source of Ed's stress and Martin's precious education is already gone by the time they go inside, but the workbooks and papers remain spread out across one end of the dining table. Martin is toiling away in the middle of a thin paper backed workbook, huffing down at the page with little angry puffs and sighs.

Ed's... somewhere. Oswald didn't recognize anything he tried to mumble as words following his impromptu nap in the back of the limo, but his general trajectory suggested the bedroom, where he's either transitioning from a nap to actual sleep or possibly bathing to try to get his mind in order.

Which leaves Oswald with Martin. The other Oswald's Martin. The one that's here and breathing and _alive._

He knows very well why he hasn't dared to try and hug him yet. The boy doesn't need one of his guardians blubbering into his curls without an apparent cause. So Oswald stands just outside the boundary separating the dining room from the hall, hand gripping his cane tight enough to make the little details on the falcon's wings dig into his skin.

All it takes is one distressed slump of Martin's shoulders to send Oswald rocketing over, slowing to a reasonable pace only when Martin looks up in alarm. He sits up straight in his chair and worries his lower lip.

“Don’t mind me,” Oswald says. He pulls out the chair to Martin’s right and sits heavily. “Doing some homework?”

Martin nods. He slides his notepad closer and writes two words in the center. _Family tree._

“Oh,” Oswald falters. “Did your tutor specify or,” he trails off as Martin shoves the workbook over to Oswald. On the bottom center of the page is _Martin Cobblepot_ , and Oswald nearly chokes. Following the solid line up and over he finds his own name and Ed’s. “Oh.”

There's a gentle _tugtugtug_ at his sleeve as Martin drags Oswald back to reality. He's drawn something, a little sad face and a question mark, and Oswald searches his pockets for a handkerchief to gently dab at his eyes. “I'm fine,” he says even as his heart shatters, “just fine. Long day.”

Martin tears away the top sheet and writes, _it's supposed to have five_.

“It's supposed… the family tree?” Oswald steels himself and looks down at the workbook pages. Martin indicates the offending rule at the top of the page, and Oswald frowns. “Well, you know, it's alright that it's small. A family has to start somewhere.” Martin fiddles with his marker and glowers down at their little family sapling. Oswald can't stand to let the boy's frustration fester when he has an obvious solution. “My mother's name is Gertrude Kapelput.” Martin's head pops up with surprise. “That's G-E-R-” he quickly looks back down and starts writing. “G-E-R-T-R-U-D-E K-A-P-E-L-P-U-T. Good. See, our surname is a bit Anglicized. Kapel, Cobble. P- you get the idea. And my father's name is Elijah Van Dahl. E-L-I- oh!” he exclaims when Martin finishes faster than he can spell, “yes that's right, and Van Dahl is two words. Van, and then D-A-H-L.”

“They weren't married,” he explains. “But my father did eventually marry someone, and she already had two children when they did, a boy and a girl. You can add them out here,” he indicates the very edge of the paper. “But you know,” he goes on, “you do already have five, so you can just leave their names off.”

-

The sun sets and Martin finishes his workbook pages and yet Ed still does not return from the bedroom. Another little _tugtugtug_ makes Oswald swivel his gaze from the staircase over to Martin, where he's already prepared a single word plea on his notepad.

_Hungry._

“That sounds reasonable,” Oswald says, “but I think Ed must have fallen asleep.” He casts one last forlorn look at the stairs. “How about,” he pauses and taps his chin, “you go find one of the staff and tell them what you would like to eat.” Martin points to himself with a questioning expression. “Yes you,” he says warmly. “I'll go see if Ed is among the living, ah, I mean, awake. Just a phrase.”

But Martin is already trotting off towards the kitchen and, clearly, his stomach isn't also doing back flips over such a careless implication.

He pushes himself out of the chair and his anxieties to the back of his mind. If there's one thing he can be certain of in a sea of uncertainty it's that Ed would have never gone quietly, and that sound carries far in the open architecture of the mansion. And while the gnawing in his gut is downright awful he wouldn't trade it for the numb emptiness from before.

He's asleep. He isn't being sensible about it since he's on top of the covers but he's out enough that Oswald's thumping footsteps don't even make him stir.

Whatever Ed's intentions may have been his tiredness clearly won. The towel and damp hair indicate a shower, possibly to wake him, but his glasses being safely stowed on his nightstand and the pajamas suggest otherwise.

“Ed,” Oswald whispers, reaching out a hand to gently shakes his shoulder. He goes on to say, “I left Martin in charge of dinner. Hopefully he won't burn down the house.” Ed hardly moves.

So Ed's not hungry. Fine. Oswald and Martin can enjoy whatever ill advised meal he's cooked up on their own.

But he can't just _leave_ Ed like this. Even early winter is brutal in a drafty old mansion, and Ed's damp hair isn't doing him any favors.

“Ed,” Oswald hisses. “Ed I will not see someone as sensible as you get sick from sleeping on top of the blankets.” There's a brief glimmer of wakefulness, but Ed just blinks up at him blearily before letting his eyes close again. “You really are at your least helpful when you're asleep.”

Between Oswald's impressive determination and Ed's half-aware compliance he manages to tug the sheets and comforter down and then up over Ed's lanky body. As he starts to move away a hand swats at his arm, and he catches it after Ed's third failed attempt to grab him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Martin's-”

“Probably demanding ice cream for dinner in the kitchen as we speak. Sleep.” He squeezes Ed's hand once and gets a quick pulse in return.

For a moment he's sure Ed is going to drag him in to demand a kiss, but his hand slips loose from Oswald's and dangles over the edge of the bed until Oswald tucks it in under the covers.

-

Unsurprisingly, he wakes up alone.

He's equal parts well rested and sluggish from the night before. Turns out Martin's ideal night only includes ice cream _after_ a hearty, meat filled lasagna that they both ate second helpings of, followed by Oswald drowsing in a chair by the fireplace while Martin draws on the floor until he falls asleep from a combination of warm food and the crackling fire.

He's hardly made it into the hall when he hears a gulping, choked breath, and Ed whispering, “shh, it's alright, Martin.”

The icy shards needling his stomach urge him to act, but the fear of what he might see plants him in place just outside Martin's bedroom door.

Then there's a scribbling of marker on paper, and some of the dread recedes. He's able to write, he can't be that hurt. Oswald moves close enough to peer in the room through the thin crack between the door frame and the hinged side of the door. Martin is upright, unharmed, but he is upset by something. Ed's kneeling in front of Martin, waiting patiently while he finishes writing, and then his eyes move across the page.

“I don't know,” he says. “Maybe a new bill. It can't be for reelection already.” He takes Martin's notepad and moves it aside so he can gather him in his arms. “It’ll be okay. In the meantime there's nothing wrong with enjoying it while it lasts.”

Oswald moves away from the door and shuts down every avenue of anxious thought while he slips back into the bedroom and into the bathroom for a long soak. Out in the hall he can hear footsteps, first the louder and less frequent ones of Ed, followed by the quick, softer steps of Martin. He waits until he can't hear either of them anymore before emerging from the tub and throwing on a bathrobe so he can investigate.

Martin's notepad isn't in his room, but there's a single crumpled note at the bottom of his wastebin. He smooths it out as much as he's able and reads it, although learning what it says clarifies nothing.

 _Why's he being so nice_?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

He’s sure there’s some sort of oddly specific proverb he should be heeding, some old word of mouth tale about the inevitability of fate he’s perfectly replicating with his bumbling attempts to not screw up this second chance with Ed and Martin.

Oswald can’t think of a more fitting afterlife, forced to screw up their lives for the rest of eternity, because Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot can’t help but ruin the things that he loves most.

_ There’s nothing wrong with enjoying it while it lasts _ .

Ed is more outwardly receptive. He’s clingy, actually, to a degree Oswald would find inconvenient if it wasn’t the only thing keeping him somewhat put together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

Martin must sense Oswald’s hesitation to initiate physical contact with him, because he’ll savor and relish every instance of choice Oswald gives him but the moment he offers out a trembling hand he’s back to being the straight backed, scared little boy he first met a week ago. He can’t imagine how poorly received a hug would be, and he’s afraid enough of the outcome to continue putting off trying.

But every act of kindness and affection adds to this unseen pressure filling the rooms of the mansion. It’s a suffocating miasma of anxiety and anticipation, and the creature comforts he used to rely on and then pine for are the ones exacerbating the problem.

His only sanctuary is city hall, where Ed is prompt and efficient and professional. They exchange a few words first thing in the morning along with Oswald's itineraries, and the remaining hours of his day are spent in solitude.

“Mayoral and Underworld itineraries,” Ed says as he hands the packets to Oswald. “The lieutenants are requesting a meeting with you,” he adds. “It’s scheduled for next week.”

“Move it,” Oswald sighs. A true leader would have put a little effort into the command. Oswald just feels tired. “Remind them that they can request whatever they like but  _ I’ll  _ be making the final say.”

“Right,” Ed says. Their eyes meet, and Ed’s echo back the same tedious sentiment. “I’ll be in my office if something arises.”

Oswald nods once. As the door shuts he turns his head to the right, staring down Zsasz as he continues to fuss about with the glasses in the wet bar.

“You two are being weird,” Zsasz says.

“Yes, and you lurking in the back of my office without saying a word is perfectly normal behavior. Thank you for the prime example of how one should act in the workplace.”

There's about a 50/50 chance Zsasz either didn't hear him or just doesn't care. “Did you two stop doing it again?”

How this man manages to ask everything as if it’s an inquiry about the weather is a feat even Oswald hasn’t mastered. “Doing  _ what _ , exactly?”

“Don’t do this to yourself boss,” he laments. “You just started being fun again. Why don’t you go have a nooner in the guy’s office and I’ll scare away any media hounds.”

“I’m not in the  _ mood _ .” For this, for  _ that _ , for anything that isn’t just sitting at this desk for the next few hours. “Are you in here for a reason?” he sputters, “or, or do you get some sort of weird satisfaction from smudging up my glassware?”

“Your boy toy-”

“ _ Victor _ -”

“ _ Ed  _ got those records,” he says stiffly. He tosses a folder onto Oswald's desk. “Past and present all accounted for. I gotta say, future's been a fun one. Got some solid leads from a couple-”

“Yes that's fine keep up the good work,” he rambles. “I see not  _ everyone  _ is deceased.”

“Kind of hard to do that in one week.”

“Why?” Oswald scoffs, “because you had too hard a time choosing who to kill first?” Zsasz smirks. “It's not important unless you're going for a record. In the meantime,” he pauses as the word  _ Arkham  _ stands out among a sea of  _ deceased _ , “Sofia Falcone is in Arkham.”

“Yup,” Zsasz nods. “Don't think she's really going anywhere with the ol’,” he clicks his tongue and taps his pointer finger against his forehead. “Helpful nurse on the night shift told my guy Sofia hasn't made a peep since she got admitted.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I assume she’s well kept.”

“Probably,” Zsasz says, “since it’s the same wing your mom’s in.”

The sensation Zsasz’s careless comment invokes is not unlike swallowing a cupful of coolant and feeling it slip between the places between his bones. “What now?”

“You know, the one with windows and privacy and less screaming. The one that,” he snaps his fingers, “that uh, damn- Wayne! The one he funded like, a year ago, or whatever.”

Oswald closes his eyes to help him think, but his thoughts keep slipping sideways to a single white lily in front of a worn gravestone and the flickering of a too short match burning out far too fast.

“Right, Arkham, my  _ mother _ . I think I just misheard you.” The list of things Oswald would rather endure than go to Arkham grows exponentially in his mind even as he accepts the inevitable. “Why don't you tell Ed I'll be out for the afternoon. I think I'll be paying m- _ Sofia _ a little personal visit. To check up on her of course.”

-

The paper and plastic around a dozen lilies crinkles as Oswald clutches them to his chest. Arkham's gate is still the looming ominous portal to the ancient, crumbling brick buildings, but one of the lots Oswald remembers seems to have become a garden. Without getting closer he can't be certain whether the gardener is metahuman or not, though he does not have a desire to know.

Someone put in enough money and effort to make the first fifty feet of the lobby fresh and new, but just beyond reception and a smattering of potted plants the clean tile is dingy and pitted.

A certain billionaire orphan may need a bit of cajoling in the near future. If he can afford to put an entire new wing on Arkham he can certainly put some sort of fund towards improving the existing structure.

He waits by the front desk, staring down at the young woman doodling on the edges of an intake form. He clears his throat softly, and then again louder, but she's actively ignoring him or clinically deaf. There's a silver bell on the counter to his left, and a sharp tap to the top fills the space with a tinny ring.

“Yes?” she sighs with annoyance.

“I believe you still have open hours for visitation,” he hints.

“Name?” she drawls. No amount of renovations to the lobby can really fix her off putting demeanor.

“You could do with being a bit more respectful,” he lectures her. “And having a bit of clarity, for one thing. Are you asking for my name or-?”

“Who are you visiting Mayor Cobblepot?” she snaps.

He glares down at her and snatches her pen away so he can scribble  _ Gertrude Kapelput  _ on the visitation form before sliding it off the desk and into her lap. She grumbles as she rights it, looking up with a wary curiosity as she points a hand to the elevator. “Third floor, room 8.”

He gives her a 'was that so hard’ look instead of a thank you and she returns to ignoring him instead of a you're welcome.

The elevator groans with protest on the way to the third floor, and Oswald keeps close to the door in case it decides to plummet to the basement after the doors open. The doors open with a wheezy  _ bing _ and he scurries out, turning back to watch the doors scrape shut, metal against metal shrieking but otherwise operating normally.

The Wayne Wing, terrible name, possibly a shorthand of something long and dithering, does in fact have considerably less screaming. There's none, actually, and the only damage accrued from a year or so of wear and tear is an odd stain on the wall between two large barred windows.

The first room on the right has a small placard with Falcone, Sofia hand written in large block letters. There's a woman inside the room sitting in a wooden rocker by the only window, motionless except for a gentle rise and fall of her chest. It  _ looks  _ like Sofia, but not the one he remembers with perfectly curled hair and well tailored clothes. She reminds Oswald of a frumpy grandmother without the wrinkles.

Leaning against the door to get a better look through the small window causes it to creak against the hinges. He stands his ground, watching as Sofia slowly turns towards the door and makes the round scar on her forehead visible. Her steady gaze holds no recognition; there's only a blatant disinterest for a few beats until she looks back to her window.

He walks straight to room eight and runs a hand over his counterpart's mother's room plaque, which is made of some sort of plastic instead of flimsy paper. Oswald tries the door and finds it unlocked, and when he enters the room and sees her in a place not dissimilar to Sofia's he gulps.

He can't explain the relief of seeing her in a similar loose skirt and sweater, but the thought of his mother in anything pant-like emanates a powerful bad omen. Gertrude Kapelput wears dresses full of lace and brocade and satin, not  _ pants _ . Her current ensemble lacks his mother's style, but she looks comfortable despite her setting. The window she's looking out overlooks the garden full of now dead plants that will hopefully green up in the spring.

There’s a tiny desk by the window with a lightweight orange plastic chair. Oswald pulls it a bit closer and sits just outside his counterpart’s mother’s reach. She doesn’t turn to him.

“Hello,” he starts, choking back ‘mother’ when it tries to slip out. “I thought you’d like some company.”

Nothing. She may be upright and breathing but it still reminds him of talking to a headstone, equally unhearing and unresponsive and, ultimately, unhelpful.

But it's never stopped him before.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he says, “because I don’t think I can be honest with anyone else.” He plays with an edge of the plastic wrapping around the lilies. “I’m not who I appear to be. I’m not,” he looks up at her, hoping for a captive audience he doesn’t deserve and does not get, “I don't know why I'm here, in this Gotham. So many people I've already seen die are alive here and, and I can't _ tell  _ someone that without them wanting to put me here with you. I’m afraid,” he admits. “I'm doing everything differently, I can  _ tell _ , and I think it's the wrong way to keep everyone safe.” He rubs a hand over his face, swearing, but when he looks at his hand it's clean. “He doesn't even wear make-up,” Oswald laughs bitterly. “I don't know what your son is like, ma'am, but I'm beginning to think he's rather detestable, but maybe for good reason if you're still here. I can't begin to tell you how much I miss my own version of you. I don't know if coming here makes me feel any better.” He watches the way she blinks, slowly, maybe even a bit addled. She  _ is  _ in Arkham after all. “I guess if you're here now there's a chance my own mother would have ended up here someday. I don’t think I’d have liked that back home, but at least you have a nice room.”

He looks down at the lilies and touches one of the thick petals before leaning over far enough to deposit them into her lap. “I always tried to bring my mother lilies back home. I thought you'd also like them, since now your son isn't around to visit, if he  _ did  _ visit. They’ll brighten up the room.”

Gertrude curls one hand around the stems. Her affect is flat until she bends her neck to look at the flowers, and her face brightens, like turning on a light in a dark room. “Oh, they're lovely.” She looks up and smiles at him. “Oswald, darling.”

“Hello,” he says again, and again he doesn't call this woman mother. “I'm glad you like them.”

“They need water,” she coos, standing abruptly and twirling about her small room as she looks for something. “We can't have them wilting so soon.”

“Next time I'll bring a vase,” he promises. “Please,” he gets up and stills her movements, “don't worry about the flowers. I'll bring you more when these wilt.”

“Oswald they need water,” she chastises him. “I can't let them die.”

“I'll come back with a vase,” he says again. He tucks a bit of her hair behind her ear. “I know I just got here, but I didn't plan my day very well. I'll come back later this week with a vase and a much looser schedule.”

“No, no Oswald,” she drops the lilies as she reaches out for Oswald and her socked feet crush some of the stems. “No, you can’t go so soon-”

“I’ll come back later this week,” he promises. She grabs two handfuls of his suit coat and he holds her by the wrists. “I  _ mean  _ that, I’ll come back-”

“No, Oswald, you can’t leave,” she pleads. “Please, Oswald-” her voice hitches. “Please-”

“I,” he flounders. He’s never been very good at denying his mother what she wants.

“You can’t!” she wails. “You can’t leave, no, Oswald-”

“Shh,” he moves his hands to her shoulders, “shh, just calm down,” he grunts as she throws herself at him, but he maintains his balance on his good leg. “I’ll,” he sighs, “I’ll stay for a bit longer.”

She clutches him to her chest, not unlike his own mother, and sobs into his shoulder. Oswald’s hand trembles as he moves it up to hold the back of her head. He watches through the small window on the door until he’s certain an intervention team isn’t going to come barging in to sedate her, and then he turns towards the small mirror bolted into the wall by the desk.

Being here, seeing her in this state, leaves Oswald wondering if his mother didn’t get a morbid mercy back home. He stares himself down for even thinking it, but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty as his counterpart’s mother falls apart in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed these chapters are getting progressively longer. The idea is that they'll all still stay under 3000 words but we'll see if that happens.
> 
> I want to thank everyone for leaving comments and kudos! I'm notoriously bad at replying to comments but know that they really make my day when I get the little email notifications about them.


	6. Chapter 6

There aren't any clouds in the sky but the moon is a mere waning crescent, causing Oswald to fumble about on the dark path leading up to the front steps. Ed's neglected to leave the porch light on, or maybe that's a job normally done by Oswald himself.

His hands shake so badly he can hardly work the front door. Down the near silent halls he can hear what must be a fire crackling in the fireplace, and the ticking of the grandfather clock just past the foyer. And then as he takes off his cost he hears loud footsteps, and when they stop he finds Ed standing in the doorway leading to the living room.

“Did you have a nice ni-?”

“Out,” Oswald snaps. He blinks a few times before he realizes that didn't answer Ed's question. “What was that?”

“I um,” Ed clears his throat, “I asked if you had a nice night?”

He can still feel the way his counterpart’s mother clutched at him, and the way her hand slipped from his as a sedative finally calmed her hysteria. “No.”

“Oh,” Ed says. “Well, I suppose there's always tomorrow.”

He studies Ed then, the uncertainty, the little motes of hesitation to approach though Oswald is sure he looks like a wreck. “Go sit by the fire.”

“Just myself or is this a meeti-?”

“Ed, please.” His voice and heart are broken enough. He can't process whatever is making Ed this way now. “Go sit.”

Ed does as he asks, and Oswald rests his face in his hands. He only sobs once, silently, and then his composure is cobbled together enough to make his way to Ed.

He sits rigid-backed and proper until Oswald throws himself down on the loveseat and drags him over to lie across Oswald's lap. There's that half beat of hesitation that makes Oswald tense up along with Ed, but then his glasses clack softly against the coffee table as Ed sets them out of harm's way and settles against him.

He doesn't know how to hold any of these people without risking breaking them more than they already are. Ed and Martin, and now his mother, they all have these unseen cracks and he's just jabbing his fingers between the jagged edges as he bumbles around trying to be this other version of him.

Holding Ed helps him hold himself together, at least for a little while. Oswald asks, “where is Martin?” though he feels confident the answer is asleep.

“It's nearly ten,” Ed says drowsily.

“So he's in bed,” Oswald guesses, and Ed rubs his cheek against Oswald's chest as he nods.

There's some ritual he's tapped into that he should recognize but  _ can't, _ but Ed sits up, hair asunder and eyes hazy, and he latches onto Oswald like a limpet. He kisses his cheek, just a light little thing, but Oswald  _ can't. _

“Ed,” he starts, but he's stopped by a true and proper kiss and part of his heart feels like it's crumbling away and the rest bursts out of his chest. “Ed,” he repeats, and gives a careful tug to Ed's sweater to pull him back. Soft placations and reassurances die on his tongue in the face of Ed's confusion, and he shakes his head before pushing himself up and limp-jogging to the stairs.

“Oswald! Oswald?” Ed calls after him, but his voice fades the farther Oswald gets, until he's shutting the door to the master bathroom and slinking to the floor with his back against the door.

-

He wakes up with a sore heart and and even worse neck. Standing takes a Herculean feat of strength, but he's upright thanks to the sturdy counter and his good leg.

Oswald grimaces but accepts that reality that if he's going to pretend last night didn't happen he should at least put in the effort to clean up his face. The single positive among a vast ocean of negatives is his face is drawn and tired, but he doesn't have to spend twenty minutes getting every last bit of running mascara off his cheeks.

“What did you do?” he asks. He's not sure who.

Oswald wraps his hand around the- cold, ice cold- knob and opens the door to the bedroom, where he finds two lumps on the bed underneath a pile of blankets.

His content sigh at seeing Ed and Martin stops short when it turns into a tiny cloud condensing in front of his face.

“What?” he whisper-shrieks, or apparently shrieks loudly, because Ed's head pops up from beneath the sanctuary of warmth. “Why is it freezing?”

The moment Ed sits up he huddles, and bless him, he makes sure his movements don't uncover Martin while he continues to sleep. “The heat must be out,” he whispers. He reaches for his glasses and slips one leg out from under the blankets.

“No, stop,” Oswald lunges forward and puts his hands on Ed's shoulders. The wary way Ed watches his hands makes him let go just as quickly. “Stay in bed,” he says, “and I'll make a call.” He's gone straight from trying to blend in to finding every way possible to make Ed pull the same shocked face he's making even as he listens to Oswald's request. “When I get confirmation, have Martin and yourself pack enough clothes and things for a few days’ time.”

-

Martin's first order of business when he steps into the hotel room Oswald's booked until the heating gets fixed is to distrust the veracity of the gesture, but after a nod from Ed he's bounding through the main room to explore the unseen portions of the suite.

“Thank you,” Ed whispers to Oswald, hand brushing against his lower back, and then he slips by to bring their luggage to the king sized bed Oswald nearly drooled over when the receptionist described the amenities. He follows to watch Ed fold their clothes and put them away in the dresser, returning Ed’s brief glances with some weak smiles of his own.

There’s a gentle tapping at his arm, and he sidesteps to allow Martin to join them in the master bedroom. He watches Martin scamper over to Ed, notepad eagerly thrust up at Ed’s face and a towel over one of his shoulders. “I know, I  _ know  _ there's a pool Martin.”

Ed looks to Oswald, and that makes Martin look to Oswald, and suddenly he’s expected to deny the boy his simple whims? Impossible. “I don’t see the harm.” He shrugs. In response to Ed’s shock he explains, “we  _ own  _ the hotel. I can’t imagine a much safer location.”

“I’ll go with,” Ed says fondly. “We all can,” he extends the offer. This time Oswald will deny him, if only to avoid the shell shock of seeing Ed shirtless.

“I have some work to do, go.” He waves them off. “Don’t let me slow you down.”

-

Even if everything else in the world lets Oswald down he can always rely on the artificial calmness provided by a stiff drink. Brandy, today, a dark and rich bottle he made room service bring to him as sleep continues to elude him.

In the other room Ed’s spread-eagle on the bed, half dressed and hair curling from sleeping on it wet. Martin’s been asleep for hours. Moments after being kicked out of the pool, something Oswald is both shocked by and yet not surprised in the least, he’d collapsed on the couch in front of the oversized television and hardly woken for dinner let alone a bath.

Martin’s room is separated by space and not by a door, and if Oswald cranes his neck just so he can see the boy sleeping in the middle of the full sized bed. Turning the chair to have an easier time leans too heavily towards the paranoia he’s come to associate with his counterpart, a man so concerned with keeping these two within arm’s reach that  _ swimming in a pool  _ is considered off limits.

Though he can’t deny the way his heart speeds up when he cranes his neck again and the lump in the bed is missing. He leans over further, seeing down the hall as much as he’s able, when Martin appears in the archway separating his room from the main room. Oswald straightens up, ready to claim he’d dropped something to explain his odd position, when he stops short.

There are tears in his eyes, and the dim lamp Oswald is sitting by shines in the tracks of some that have already fallen. He looks with longing to the bedroom where Ed continues to sleep, and back to Oswald, this time with apprehension and just a touch of fear.

“Martin, come here,” he says softly. Martin takes just a half step back towards his bed and away from Oswald. “It’s okay,” he tries again, this time holding out a hand. “Come here.”

He hardly has time to set his glass aside on the table before Martin takes his hand. They exchange a few pulses back and forth, tiny squeezes in random patterns Martin chooses and Oswald repeats.

It’s not so bad, having to feel just how real and alive this Martin is compared to his own. It’s nice to know someone out there kept him safe.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure what for, maybe everything.

The first fat tear sliding down Martin’s cheek ends him, right there and then, and he gathers him up onto his lap before he can even sob. His arms lock around Oswald’s torso, face smashed into his shoulder, and Oswald’s nose is filled with the faint smell of chlorine from Martin’s hair. He’s crying and it’s the worst thing in the world but he’s here and he’s alive and that’s more than enough for Oswald.

“I know, I know, it’s okay,” he mumbles against Martin’s scalp. He doesn’t know, maybe it isn’t okay, but Martin doesn’t need to know that.


	7. Chapter 7

The moment Oswald’s foot crosses the threshold of the mansion he feels utterly, completely _wrong_ in every way. Martin squeezes his hand once before bounding through the halls, Ed touches his back again and smiles, and Oswald is left there, still cold to the bone even though the heat is working as good as it ever has.

He holes up in his personal lounge and brushes off every attempt to socialize sent his way. He needs to think, to plan, to not just keep doing this to them without considering that maybe, he’s merely a guest here and their original Oswald will come back.

No matter how many times Oswald tries to smooth the wrinkles out of Martin’s note they persist like little angry blemishes trying to distort the words.

_Why’s he being so nice?_

He can’t get the image of a boy, not even entering his tween years yet, projecting such a loud and obvious fear for his original Oswald. In what world is it better to return to his own bed alone after a bad dream than allow Oswald to see him seeking out comfort?

This one, apparently. At the back of Oswald’s sinuses he swears he can still smell chlorine from the night he finally coaxed Martin to come within arm’s reach.

The floorboards outside his lounge are loose and creaky. Creak creak, pause, and then the continued creaks of a slow retreat. It happens multiple times over the course of the day. Oswald slowly drains a bottle of liquor from the cabinet instead of acknowledging Ed’s concern.

Until he’s through half the bottle and teetering on his feet. The board down the hall creaks, and then the one by the door, and Oswald rushes forward, relying far too much on his cane to propel him forward and open the door before Ed can make his retreat.

“Oh, Oswald, you um,” he sighs, “Martin’s asleep. It’s nearly ten- are you alright?”

Oswald reaches into his pocket and rubs his thumb over Martin’s note before handing it over to Ed. “I think we need to talk.”

“This is.” Ed turns it over in his hands. “Oswald he didn’t mean anything negative-”

“Ed, please.” He pats Ed’s chest with one trembling hand. “Let’s talk. Go to the fireplace. We’ll talk.”

“His tutor comes in the morning-”

“That’s fine, let him sleep.” He waves Ed on and swallows around a bit of anxiety and maybe bile. “Let’s talk.”

The fire is down to coals, casting no heat or light but giving the room a hellish atmosphere. Oswald gestures for Ed to sit, and he adds another log, poking at the coals until a bit of the corner catches and the room is once again bathed in yellow/orange light.

“Based on that,” he begins, and gestures to the note still in Ed’s hands, “Martin noticed something about me. Something different.”

“Oswald he _means_ well. He’s a smart boy, but some situations are a bit more nuanced than he’s prepared to interpret.”

“Fair.” Oswald nods. “But _you_ noticed something too.” Ed struggles with a response, starting and stopping dozens of replies and yet the words don’t come. “It’s okay. There is a difference.”

“I wouldn’t have put it this way.” He holds up the note briefly. “Oswald, I know you’ve been through a great deal. Some things come harder, others easier. You do so much for us, for this family.”

“You’re making this so much harder and it’s already impossible,” Oswald laughs. It turns into a sob, he can thank the liquor for breaking his facade so quickly. “Ed I am not who I appear to be. I don’t know why or how, but here I am.” He gestures to himself helplessly, and to Ed and his increasing concern, to the stairs leading to Martin’s room. “The farthest back I can remember of this place, with the two of you, is the day you made quiche for breakfast.”

“That’s,” Ed breathes out, long and slow, “alarming. Do you have a head injury? Or, or some sort of amnesia?”

“No, no,” he scoffs, “but something is wrong. And when I tell you you’re going to think I’m losing my mind.” He thinks that already; he’s already mentally dialing for the physician as they speak. Oswald sits beside Ed to tamper his growing hysteria. “Please just let me finish what I have to say before casting judgement.”

“Of course,” he says. His eyes betray something else, but Ed takes Oswald's hand and cradles it in both of his.

“I am acting different because I _am_ different. I am not,” he shakes his head, “I’m not from this Gotham. Call it a timeline or what have you, this is not mine.” And that’s all it takes for Ed to pull his hands back. “Don’t- Ed, I am not making light of some _condition_ , or stringing you along with some fanciful tale! I. Do not. Belong here.”

Ed shakes his head. “Oswald, what is this?”

“I-” He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know how to make you _understand_ this. _I_ don’t understand this!” Oswald leans his pounding head against the back of the couch and folds his arm over his stomach.

Ah. That might do it.

He stands, undoing his suit jacket and unbuttons his waistcoat. “I can prove it,” he says as he stands in front of Ed. He laughs nervously. “I know this looks rather ridiculous.”

Ed looks up from Oswald’s torso. “Do you?”

“Ed, please, this is not some wild fantasy scenario.” Something he will always, _always_ be thankful of because Jesus every day spent here is his own personal heaven and hell combined into a horrible mismatched amalgamation. “The Oswald you're used to, the Oswald you know, probably didn't have this,” he pulls the sides of his shirt open and shows Ed his stomach, “right?”

The scar didn't heal well. Its edges are uneven and rough, and a small pockmark in the center remains from the bullet's eventual removal. Ed reaches forward and barely brushes the edge of it with a finger. He whispers, “who did this?”

“You did,” Oswald breathes. Ed snatches his hand away from the wound. “My version of you, I mean.”

“What?” He understands the distress, the reluctance to accept this reality as he presents it. “Why?”

“I did something to Ed. Something reprehensible. His reaction was to shoot me, after some other unpleasantries.” He begins buttoning his shirt back up to cover the scar. “Are you starting to believe me?”

“This is,” Ed shakes his head, “nonsensical. You, you're _Oswald_. But you're not, are you saying my Oswald is gone?”

“I don't know,” he admits. “There was this, this giant ball of light, hurtling towards me. And then,” he makes a small explosion gesture, “it hit me, and I don't remember a thing. I woke up here to that ridiculous portrait and the two of you, here.”

 _Alive_.

Ed presses his fingers into his eyes. “This makes no sense.”

“This is _Gotham,_  Ed. It makes _some_ sense.” There truly is no chance this city isn't nearly as bonkers as his old one if not moreso.

“What happened?” Ed can’t stop staring right at the scar through his shirt, mentally drawing the outline he barely touched. Oswald closes his waistcoat to dislodge his eyes. “What did you _do_?”

“There was a woman,” he starts, and then he sits beside Ed, offering up a hand but not letting his disappointment show when he refuses to take it. “Her name was Isabella.” Ed sucks in a breath. “She, Ed was infatuated with her, and I was enamored with Ed. And I was _incredibly_ selfish. I had Gabe cut her brakes, and her car was hit by a train.”

“Isabella, you, but he wouldn’t-”

“ _I_ did,” he says firmly. “I did, Ed. I had her killed, and I didn’t hesitate to swoop in to pick up the broken pieces of Ed’s heart, because that is what I _wanted_ . And he found out. And he was _furious_. And he shot me, and threw me into the river.”

“No.” Ed shakes his head. “He, it was-”

“Ed,” he stops him. “We aren’t identical but we’re the same where it really matters. And a less nice version of myself?” He sighs. “Well _I_ did it. I can’t imagine he’d have any problem doing the same.”

Ed doesn’t speak, he hardly moves. It’s like he’s retreated into himself and left the shell behind.

“I’m assuming that, since you’re here with him, you never found out before this.” He can’t touch Ed for fear of igniting the grief and anger boiling under the surface, but every part of his consciousness is reaching out to console him. “I don’t think I can fully articulate just how sorry I am. It is one of my greatest regrets in life.”

Ed stands and turns towards the fireplace to lean on the shelf above the hearth. Oswald can feel what’s about to happen like a buzz in his chest, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. “I think you should go.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neglected to have time to respond to all the wonderful comments this week but thank you all for taking the time to write them!

Oswald shares the face of a man willing and able to lie to Ed for the better part of two years. Demanding a driver cart his inebriated self around town so Ed can process the truth is the least he can do.

He chooses city hall for a temporary home base. Between the hard leather couch and the wet bar and endless piles of legislation and paperwork he can keep up the pretense of being a fully functioning human while a part of him shrivels up and dies. But the papers remain in their folders and the couch is untouched even as the moon rises high.

He should just save Ed the trouble and get back to his own time. Let the original Oswald deal with the fallout of his actions while Oswald returns to his lonely tower.

He nurses a single glass of watered down whisky and leans in the sill of the window overlooking the city, tensed for the inevitable ball of glowing energy to come hurtling back to his own timeline where he belongs.

There's no lights, there aren't even sirens. For once Gotham is peaceful, or as close to peaceful as a city like this gets. If he was closer to the Narrows there would almost certainly be some sort of mugging or knife fight in the darkened alleys, but from here it’s a distant smudge on the horizon. If he watches long enough it looks like it's breathing.

His phone drags him back to the office with its insistent buzzing against his chest. He pulls it from his breast pocket and accepts the call without looking at the number. “Yes?”

Nothing. Just harsh breathing too close to the receiver. Oswald ends the call and tosses the phone onto the sill. Intimidation 101, call but don't say a word. Child's play.

He has to commend their insistence when the phone rings again, and again after he doesn't bother to answer. The plastic creaks when he snaps it open. “This is not an intimidation, it's an  _ annoyance _ , and I won't be,” he trails off, straining to hear something behind the breathing. Mumbles and inaudibles and a single 'Martin’ cuts through clear as a bell. “Martin?”

Nothing. Of course there's nothing, bless the boy. “Martin listen to me, we're going to stick to yes and no questions. I want you to tap on the phone once for yes, twice for no, okay?” he waits, and there's a single sharp tap in his ear. “Good, very good. Martin are you alright?”

There's a long pause before a single tap. “Okay. And you're at home,” a tap, not that he needed one. “Is Ed alright?”

Two taps. Of course he's not okay, nothing to freeze up over. “And you're with him?”

Again, doesn't really need an answer, but he asked so he gets a single tap in response. “Move closer to him. And once you're there hold the phone so he can hear too.”

The background sounds grow louder and distinct; heaving breaths, and sobbing, and Oswald grabs at his chest to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. It doesn't ease the tightness there. “Ed you don't have to talk, just nod. Martin will translate.” Single tap. “Do you want me to come back to the mansion?”

“Ye-” Ed chokes, Martin taps once, a pause, taps once again, and he keeps repeating.  _ Tap _ . Pause.  _ Tap. _ Pause.  _ Tap _ .

“Martin- Martin I know,” he bites his tongue to keep anything worse in, “I’ll come home. I'll be there soon. Just stay on the line with me until I get there.”  _ Tap _ . “Perfect, thank you.” He crosses the room to his desk and dials his driver with one ear while keeping the other tuned to Martin's shaky breaths and Ed's breakdown.

-

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot is a champion blatherer. He talks about anything, he talks about nothing, as long as there's a stream of words tumbling out of his mouth he's doing all he can until he's crossing the mansion threshold and limp-running to the sitting room.

Martin leaps up, tired eyes and drooping in his flannel pajamas, tossing the house phone aside and letting it clatter to the floor. He holds up a note to Oswald.  _ Did you fight? _

“No, we talked, but talks can be upsetting too.” He pats the boy's head and comes to stand before Ed, who's transitioned rather smoothly into the silent mope stage of his grief and curled up on a single cushion on the old couch. “Martin why don't you get a blanket? A big one.” He nods. “Good boy. We'll be right here.”

Ed's eyes twitch every time Martin's feet slap against the hardwood. He trails his half-open eyes up Oswald's body until he's looking somewhere around his neck region. “I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“For telling you to leave,” he deadpans, “and making you come back so late.”

“That's hardly something to apologize for.” He sits just outside Ed's personal space bubble, but keeps his posture open. “I'm the one that-”

“Told the truth?”

“I did do that,” he nods. “We'll have to tell Martin, you know.”

“Not tonight,” Ed sighs.

“No, of course not.” He plasters on a fake smile when he hears Martin trotting back over with a massive blanket bundled in his arms. “That's perfect.”

Getting all three of them crammed on the couch involves more effort than Ed's willing to give, but between Oswald's gentle coaxing and Martin's insistence they manage. Oswald's leg isn't happy about how much weight Martin is putting on his hip and Ed is simultaneously tense as a rod and clinging to Oswald's chest. It's uncomfortable and far too hot with all three of them under the blanket, but he'll willingly go back to his old Gotham than disturb either of them now.

-

His bedridden state the following morning is as predictable as it was preventable. Couch ridden, rather, until Ed sets aside his grief to help Oswald to a proper bed in the guest room. Ed stays with him, but he keeps to himself at the foot of the bed. He has the blanket from last night wound tight around his body.

Martin maintains the semblance of normalcy in the mansion. He eats whatever food he convinced the help to make him and works with his tutor when she arrives, although his frequent “bathroom breaks” to come say hello are definitely not going unnoticed by anyone.

“She's going to think you're trying to get out of your studies,” Oswald teases. “We aren't going anywhere. Go finish your work.”

Martin draws a large frowning face and holds it up for them both to see as he walks backwards out of the room. Ed cracks a small smile. “Maybe we should have cancelled.”

“We wouldn't be any fun either,” he says. He starts another round of self massage to get his thigh and calf to loosen up. “Are we telling him tonight?”

“Yes? Maybe. We should, at least.” He shoves his glasses up using one blanket swaddled hand until they topple off his forehead. “There aren't a lot of resources for this sort of thing.”

“I'd go as far as saying  _ any _ ,” Oswald says.

“It's not entirely dissimilar to a stepparent.”

“Fair,” Oswald agrees. A mental picture of those  _ degenerates _ surfaces and he shakes it away. “I suppose it won't be easy.”

“It could be,” Ed says. “Oswald and Martin were never terribly close.”

“W-then why is he _here_?” Ed blinks in surprise. “In, in my Gotham I encountered Martin alone. You were,” he pauses, “not really yourself. Let's go with that.”

“Was this after Isabella?” Ed asks, to which Oswald nods. “Ah, well, there was a woman that Oswald felt threatened by. Sofia-”

“Falcone?”

“Yes. She opened an orphanage. A front of an orphanage, but there were children. I was in the yard while Oswald was in a meeting with her. Little informal things, I wasn't invited, not important. He was being picked on by a few of the other children. The notebook-”

“Keepaway?”

“Nonconsensual obviously. I was able to use my height to my advantage.” He burrows until his mouth is covered by the blanket. “We bonded after that. Maybe because of that.”

“You aren't dissimilar people.”

“I know, I see it too.” He burrows a little deeper. “It's hard to look at you.”

“I know.” He's not so dissimilar either.

“What happened to them? Your family, I mean.”

“My mother is dead,” he says. “And so is Martin.My time's Martin. Sofia had one last scheme in motion and I wasn't prepared.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.”

They both glance to the door. There's no pitter-patter of feet, but he's out there, probably pouting over fractions again, or maybe trying to convince his tutor he's sick and she should leave. He can picture that, actually, the plaintive begging look and a drawing to accompany.

“And Ed?”

“Hm?” Oswald turns away from the door. “Oh, Ed. Have you been to Arkham?”

If Ed burrows any deeper he won't be able to breathe. “Briefly. Oswald got me out for his campaign.”

“I see. I did too,” he says. “Well, my original Ed is there. Has been for some time. He's,” Oswald sighs, “not well. On his best days he's furious with me, and on his worst it's like he's porcelain. Just this hollow thing.”

Still, he does hope for the best for him.

“You don't have to force yourself to stay by me, you know.”

“You aren't him,” Ed says.

“I did the same thing he did.”

Ed sits up then, squinting a bit to bring Oswald into focus, and then he flops towards the pillows, doing a rather impressive impersonation of an inch worm as he claims the left side of the bed.

“You didn't lie about it,” Ed clarifies. “Not to me.” He moves in closer, hesitant at Oswald's side but only until he's welcomed in, and then he's letting his full weight press Oswald's good side into the mattress. “I can't forgive him.” He half-laughs. “That was ominous. I meant that literally. Do you think he's there? In your Gotham?”

“I hadn't considered it.” Though the suggestion is possible. “It's a rather rude awakening.”

“He's earned it.”

He wants to ask more, clarify this and that, but Martin appears again with a blanket dragging on the floor after him. He climbs up onto the foot of the bed and props his little notepad up for them to see.  _ I'm sick _ , it says. He coughs twice, some of the worst acting Oswald has ever seen, but he doesn't shoo him away.


	9. Chapter 9

When Ed sits Martin down at the dinner table the next day and presents their new reality he only asks three questions.

_ What happened to Oswald? _

“We don't know,” Ed says gently. “This man is  _ also  _ an Oswald. Just a different one.”

_ How did you get here? _

“I'm afraid I don't know,” Oswald says. He's standing, because if at any point Martin becomes upset he's to leave the room. “My best guess is some sort of magic, which I am not suggesting because of your age.”

Martin scowls and writes the words  _ I'm ten _ , and shows the paper to Oswald.

“I know, far too old to need coddled from the truth. I'm afraid I just don't have it and that's my best guess.”

_ Are you staying? _

“I don’t really know if that's up to me. If It is, do you want me to?” He smacks the notepad back down to write something else, which Oswald reads aloud. “You're nicer. Ed likes you more.” Ed's brilliant beet red blush outshines Oswald's mild surprise. “You know, Martin, you didn't actually answer me.”

_ YES _ .

“Alright then, good.”

Good.

-

“Ed likes me more,” he says. The mirror he's starting into doesn't offer much by the way of advice. “If only winning him over had ever been this easy.”

And when he steps away and into the bedroom he finds Ed standing in front of the portrait. Oswald slaps a hand over his cheek when he feels heat flooding them. “Were you listening to me?”

“I was waiting for you,” he says. “I may have heard a little.”

“That’s fine.” Devastating, but fine. “What did Martin mean by that? That you like me more?”

“I don't think it's that simple. I'm less tense around you. He might be picking up on that.” Ed glances back up at the face of his Oswald and frowns. “He wasn't always so bad. He was good, actually, at least for awhile.”

“He was kind?”

“He was my best friend.” Ed turns his whole body so he's facing Oswald. “I wish he'd just talked to me.”

“So do I.” Oswald glances back at the portrait. “I don't understand how you're less tense around me knowing I still killed her.”

He's really not pushing, he doesn't want to go, but he doesn't want to stay if Ed's going to realize he hates him as much as his own Oswald.

“You learned from it,” he says softly, “he didn't. And,” he shrugs one shoulder, more a twitchy jerk than nonchalant gesture, “and if this is somehow a second chance for you then maybe it is for me too.”

-

Ed’s taking a sick day. He isn’t sick, except he might be a bit sick of Oswald, or at least his face. Oswald has enough other facets of the old Oswald’s world to manage to give him a day to himself.

“I’ve come to realize some things,” Ed says from the bed as Oswald dresses for a day of mayoral duties. He turns away from the mirror, tie still half tied, and nods for Ed to continue. “I did notice something, but it took too long to figure out what, and even then I didn’t know what it meant.”

“That’s awfully cryptic,” Oswald says. He glances back at the mirror long enough to push his tie up to his neck and straighten it out. Ed’s shoulders tense as Oswald approaches, but he doesn’t scoot further away when he sits. A vast improvement. “What did you notice?”

“Your hair,” he says. “It was the smell of it when we rode to City Hall. I couldn’t place it.”

“Well it certainly wasn’t hairspray.”

“No, that I knew, because that junk always gassed up the back of the car.” He pushes up his glasses, but then takes them off entirely. A step back. “It just smelled familiar.”

Oswald nods. “Your pomade.”

“I only discovered the source when I went to use it myself. By then there were other things,” he pauses, regretting or maybe just dwelling on his bouts of randiness. “I didn’t want to point it out in case it stopped.”

“Like the niceness.”

“ _ Exactly _ , yes. Like how when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but the moment you turn towards it it’s gone.” He plays with the arms of his glasses, opening and closing them like a little pair of window wipers. “I’m glad it isn’t gone. That you’re not gone. I know it doesn’t seem that way.”

“I’d be more worried if you’d gone straight to adoring me with all your person,” Oswald says. “Slow still means progress. I’ll take that over nothing any day.”

“You really are incredibly different from him,” Ed sighs. “I feel sort of stupid, honestly.”

“You aren’t.” He’s not so different from Oswald’s old Ed. Fishing for reassurances isn’t foreign. “I noticed things too, about both of you. Martin’s was more pronounced of course, but the Ed I remember from my Gotham spewed out riddles like it was his job.”

He can safely say he never imagined missing that about Ed. Oswald hopes his Ed can feel this somehow; he can imagine just how smug he’d be. He deserves it.

“Oswald never liked them.”

“Neither did I,” he admits, “though I’ve surely endured much worse.”

Ed smiles, and he bites at his lower lip. He laughs once. “I can’t think of one.”

And here Oswald is with riddles aplenty, but none of them feel appropriate. Love? Absolutely not. Betrayal? Too fresh even if he was merely a messenger here.

“I can be found but not bought,” he starts, “by name or by- damn it. By name or-”

“Family,” Ed says. He smiles.

-

Oswald juggles a wrapped bundle of flowers and a thick plastic vase at the reception desk of Arkham Asylum. The nurse watches without offering any help, and Oswald does his best to stab her with his vision alone as he scribbles his mother’s name.

“We don’t allow glass,” she says. “Too dangerous.”

Oswald smacks it against the desk hard and the plastic clunks loudly but doesn’t break. “Good thing I read the rules then, hm?”

She didn’t even flinch. “Have a nice visit Mayor Cobblepot,” she sneers.

“Have a nice day,” he says, matching her tone. Under his breath he mutters, “I  _ hate  _ that woman.”

Up on the Wayne Wing he stops by Sofia’s door and knocks softly. She turns towards the sound from her place by the window and he beckons her over. There’s still no recognition, but she does as he requests and stands just beyond the door’s arc. Oswald opens the door for her and works up as close to a genuine smile as he can manage.

“I only have a moment,” he says. “I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

She’s not hollow, she’s blank. Anything going in doesn’t stick, or if it does it never comes back out.

“Right, that’s fine. Some things don’t need closure.” He moves the vase to the crook of his elbow and plucks a single yellow rose from the bundle of white lilies. “Bringing an actual olive branch felt a bit tacky. I consulted with my companion and felt this would serve as an acceptable substitute.”

Sofia takes the flower and twirls the stem between two of her fingers. The tiny spark in her eyes fades fast, and she walks away from the door without looking up from the flower. Oswald lets the door swing shut and moves on.

He knocks on his counterpart’s mother’s door to announce his arrival and lets himself inside. She’s by the window again, rocking infinitesimally with a gentle press of the ball of her foot against the floor. Oswald uses the sink in her small bathroom to fill the vase halfway with cool water.

“I remembered the vase this time,” Oswald says from across the room. He sets it on her bedside table, unwraps the flowers, and gently arranges them in the vase.

He pulls the desk chair over to the window and sits close to her rocker. She doesn’t look over when he sits so heavy that the chair shrieks when it scoots backwards, or when he takes her hand in both of hers.

“There’s been a development,” he says excitedly. “I told them. Both of them. And, and I didn’t vanish into thin air or wake up in my old bed.” He takes a hand back to wipe at his eye. “I don’t really know what happens next,” he says, “but you know, for the first time in a long while I think I’m hopeful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I've loved all the comments I've gotten from all of you during the making of this story.


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